


Dawn Goes Down To Day

by Sharksdontsleep



Category: The Outsiders - All Media Types, The Outsiders - S. E. Hinton, The Wire
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-typical swearing, Canonical Character Death, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Supernatural Elements, The Wire - Fusion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 16:10:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1083017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharksdontsleep/pseuds/Sharksdontsleep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The new kid drops into the chair closest to Johnny. “Pass me that worksheet, will ya,” he says, with a twang that says he’s not local.</p><p>Johnny and Dally, in Baltimore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dawn Goes Down To Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [marycontraire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marycontraire/gifts).



> NOTES: I’m not from Baltimore, but I tried to do my due diligence in portraying an accurate urban school system. This has canon-typical violence for the Outsiders and canon-typical language for the Wire. It's probably not necessary to have seen the Wire to understand the fic: It's mostly a fusion with a very small amount of crossover.
> 
> Characters’ opinions of themselves and each other are not necessarily my opinions of them. I changed some of the demographics from the original book (set in Tulsa) to fit those of the new setting. This also deals some with a character with learning obstacles; has mentions of canon character death and child abuse; and mentions of suicide, but not on screen. Pairing is between two teenagers, and firmly PG/PG13. Feedback of any variety, including concrit, welcome.
> 
> Kudos to kate_nepveu and puckling for betaing. Title from Robert Frost.

“I don’t know,” Ponyboy says. “He’s just some dumbass white boy, far as I heard. Registered at the wrong school or something.”

They’re sitting on the stoop, drinking Arizonas, doing less than nothing. It’s hot, and they’re both too broke to go sit in a chilly theater, too broke to even have walking around money for the bus, now that the buses won’t take school passes on weekends.

Soda said he’d spot Pony some money, but Pony’d need to cover his corner. It wasn’t a genuine offer - Darry’d kill Soda twice over if he got Pony in the game, and Soda’s only in it now that his baby’d come and he needed money for what SNAP and WIC didn’t cover.

“He get lost on the way to Billytown?” Johnny says, mostly for something to say. He raises the can to his face. It’s still cold, wet from the corner store fridge. It feels good against his bruised cheek and eye. He cracks his other eye open, sees Ponyboy watching him. Pony doesn’t say a thing, though, and Johnny doesn’t ask.

“He’s like some kind of albino or something,” Pony says, like he’s trying to change the subject, and maybe he is. “You’ll see Monday.” He kicks at Johnny’s busted-up shoes, old enough and off-brand enough that he never gets hassled over them. “You’re coming, right? To school?” As if he could mean anything else.

“Yeah, yeah, Pony, I’ll go.”

He doesn’t think about the new kid much. Pony always was talking like he was doing presentations in those honors classes he took, running his jaw in that way Johnny learned to quit when he’d learned to talk. But some new kid was exciting, as much as shit could be exciting in Baltimore.

He definitely doesn’t expect the new kid to show up in his class the next day, so blond it might be some kind of condition, eyefucking the teacher with a sneer that had in-school suspension regular written all over it. Another loser in a class of ‘10.5’ graders, the kids who couldn’t clear the state exams enough to get promoted or who got put out of regular class for being assholes.

The kid is older than most of them, maybe as old as Johnny, even though Johnny knows he looks about 12. He tosses his stuff in the empty chair across from Johnny, then sits, gives the other kids at the table a grin that’s all teeth.

Johnny winces, tries to clear the space of his stuff, the damn golf pencil he’d had to borrow from Mr. Morris’ desk since he couldn’t find a pen, the blank paper the office lady gave him this morning when he’d gone to deliver the attendance. She hadn’t even asked, just slid a pack over to him when she saw he wasn’t even carrying his bag. Somehow it’d made him feel worse.

The new kid does have a bag, though he doesn’t grab anything out of it. It has the same droopy look all their stuff gets when it’s just a bag and random shit, dusty from being dragged all over school floors. He’s either stupid or too new for his own good, ‘cause he leaves it on the chair next to Johnny when he gets up to grab his own pencil off the teacher’s desk.

Johnny could have whatever he wanted, then, could have taken his bus pass or his phone, even if it was just a burner, or the nice flat-brim hat with the stickers still stuck to it that he can see through the open zipper. Johnny has fast hands, but he doesn’t use them. The new boy looks like he could punch Johnny until the janitor would need to come and sweep up teeth. Johnny might be stupid, but he’s learned that look.

The new kid drops into the chair closest Johnny. “Pass me that worksheet, will ya,” he says, with a twang that says he’s not local.

It’s not really a question, either, so Johnny slides a sheet from the file folder on the desk that has the packet they’ve been working on. It’s supposed to be a pull-out class only, for the kids like Johnny who can’t seem to put together a sentence without fucking it up somehow, but they throw the ISS kids in here, too, the ones who don’t talk back enough to get level 4 punished. Home suspension is a free vacation, anyway, or permission to run the streets for a few days.

They work for a little while like that. The new kid is right-handed and Johnny is left-handed, so they bump elbows a few times. Johnny apologizes the first time, scoots his chair as far as it will go before it’s jammed next to a table leg, and the new kid shrugs.

He’s so blond that his eyebrows and eyelashes are almost see-through. It’s warm enough in the room that he just has on a T-shirt, nothing with a logo, tight enough that Johnny can see he was right not to mess with his stuff. There’s a scar on his upper arm like he’s been scraped there, deep, and it healed funny. Johnny has one like that on his neck. He’d spent a few days picking gravel out of it.

Mr. Morris is on a classical music kick this week. He says it helps soothe the emotionally disturbed kids or something, so the only sounds are the scratch of pencils and whatever music he has hooked up to his computer. Something with a lot of violins.

It’s almost lunch when the kid finally speaks. “Whatcha in for?” He’s got to be talking to Johnny, because Tiara had just rolled her eyes when he’d sat down, turned her chair so that she and Kayla could talk about their work. She’s only here ‘cause she’d done the same thing to a teacher, some new type in from the county who didn’t know that was her way of dealing with everyone. 

“Um,” Johnny says.

“Relax, will ya? I ain’t gonna steal your lunch money.” He’s definitely new, ‘cause there’s nothing about Johnny that doesn’t say ‘free-and-reduced lunch.’ Johnny has his bus pass and whatever’s rattling around in his pockets.

“I’m, uh, not on ISS,” Johnny says. “Not suspended. Just dumb, I guess.”

“Smart enough not to steal from my bag, though,” the kid says. He chews the end of his golf pencil, smiles a little. “Dallas. People call me Dally, though.”

“I’m -”

“Johnny, yeah,” Dally says, gesturing to where Johnny has it written on his paper. “What’s there to do for lunch around here, Johnny Cade?”

He says Johnny’s name like it’s a nickname somehow, the way Soda says Pony’s name, teasing, almost.

“Cafeteria,” Johnny says.

“Slop, then. Used to that.” The bell rings. “Lead the way, kid.”

It’s Monday, so it’s supposed to be taco day or something, but Johnny just snags a tunafish sandwich, some oven potatoes, and an apple. The lunchlady makes him take a milk too, even though he can’t drink it. Dally’s behind him, and grabs it off his tray. He gets the same meal as Johnny, too. Usually, Johnny sits alone, or maybe with Tiara if she’s in a good enough mood. Pony has a separate lunch period, so Johnny’s used to eating alone. He likes the quiet, mostly.

Dally sits next to him like it’s the most normal thing in the world, opens and chugs both milk cartons in quick succession, then puts his apple on Johnny’s tray. “Fair’s fair,” he says.

“Can’t drink milk,” Johnny says. “It, uh, makes me fart.”

Dally’s laugh is loud and bright.

Johnny takes his apple, and puts it back on Dally’s tray. He’d gotten in early enough for breakfast, and if he hangs out with the chess club at the rec center, they get supper too. He can probably work with that.

Dally puts it back on Johnny’s tray. “My treat. Can’t just let people take from you, ya know?” He smiles, then, nothing like the cold smile he’d given in class.

Dally’s mostly a quiet eater, grunting occasionally. He’s sitting with his back to the wall, looking over at tables of kids, some studying, some clowning, a few alone like Johnny, or like Johnny would be. Any kid with money is out on the asphalt eating carryout, so no one’s paying him any mind.

“Think anyone’ll come and see if the new guy can fight?” Dally says, casual, like he’s expecting it, like he wants them to.

Johnny shrugs.

“One of them give you that shiner?” He reaches to touch Johnny’s cheek, but Johnny pulls back before he can. “Nah, didn’t think so.” He picks up the rest of his sandwich and stuffs it in his mouth.

They’re back in the ISS room after lunch, working on the same stuff they’d been doing in the morning, reading passages and underlining in text to answer questions. Mr. Morris answers questions for Tiara and Kayla, and Daivon, who’s there in the afternoon for math, and Dally when he needs another pencil.

Johnny doesn’t have any questions, really, or none that Mr. Morris can solve. The inclusion teacher is off in another class, and the reading support lady had quit a week ago, probably to go work the county or some other place. Mr. Morris is nice, but he teaches algebra normally and admits he can’t do much for the ‘readers,’ as he calls Johnny and the other kids who can’t read too well.

Johnny knows his lips move as he reads, and even after reading in English for so long, it still feels like the adjectives are in the wrong place. He goes back to the start, again and again, words seeming to blur and swim. It doesn’t really matter if he finishes today, though. He has as long as he likes, or at least doesn’t have to do the questions he doesn’t get to. It’s frustrating, still, like tensing a muscle for five hours a day, only to have to do the same thing tomorrow, worse when he sees how easy it comes to the other kids.

Something must show, because about an hour into independent work, Dally snags Johnny’s paper, then flips to the passage Johnny was struggling with, and begins to read it out loud, loud enough to draw a look from Mr. Morris who’s sitting and explaining exponents to Daivon for about the eighth time, but not loud enough to really be a disturbance. His voice is clear, and he doesn’t stumble over much. The passage is a selection from George Washington’s farewell address; it’s for the US History class Johnny is taking for the second time.

“What’s he tryin’ to say, kid?” Dally asks, when the passage is done. “Like, what’s the point?”

Johnny breathes, thinks, finds that he actually might have understood the section. “Don’t, uh, get into other people’s shit.”

Mr. Morris clears his throat, a warning.

“You kiss your mother with that mouth?” Dally says, but he’s smiling. “So, yeah. Mind our own business. Now which part says that, specifically?”

Johnny drags his finger over the paper, to a series of words that seems to answer the question.

“Good,” Dally says. “That’s it.”

They keep going in that way, Dally having to read the passages a few times, once translating something into Spanish -

“You speak - ?”

“Picked it up riding,” Dally says, like that explains anything.

Johnny’s Spanish is about as good as Dally’s, which is to say, pretty bad, though he understands enough to get the passages. Dally talks slowly, hesitating like he has to think about every word. They switch back and forth, until Mr. Morris tells them it’s time to get their stuff together. It doesn’t take Johnny long to put his packet back into his table folder, to replace his and Dally’s pencils in the jar on Mr. Morris’ desk.

“Where’s your bag, kid?” Dally asks.

Johnny shrugs. “Don’t bring it on pull-out room days.”

“You in here tomorrow too?”

Johnny nods. “Only half-day, though. I got gym in the afternoon. And art.”

“Guess I’ll see you then.”

Johnny doesn’t ask how many days Dally has, or what he did to get ISS anyway. It turns out he doesn’t need to when Ponyboy bounds up to him after school.

“Heard you made friends with the new kid,” he says, all in a rush. “You know he’s on suspension for busting Dominic’s nose with a lunch tray.”

“Bullshit,” Johnny says. They’re close enough to their bus stop and far enough from school that Johnny can smoke. He’s only got one left from the pack he’d snuck from his mom’s purse, and it’s a week old, a little bent and stale. He takes a puff, exhales in a stream away from Pony. “That’d get you put out for at least a day.”

“Dom spit on him, first,” Pony says, in that superior tone he sometimes gets when Darry and Soda aren’t around to tell him to stop acting grown.

“Yeah, all right,” Johnny says.

“So your new friend seems _great_ ,” Pony says. “Don’t spit on him.”

“Wasn’t gonna,” Johnny says.

Dally’s back the next day, eyeing Johnny’s raggedy-ass bag with approval. Johnny’d had a roach crawl out of it once during class, sending Kayla screaming like she saw something serious. He doesn’t much like bringing it.

“Breakfast?” Dally asks, and offers Johnny half a bag of hot Cheetos.

“Go outside if you’re gonna eat those, boys,” Mr. Morris says. He adjusts his tie, purple today, with a purple shirt to match. “And wash your hands before you come back in.”

It’s technically after class has begun, but security doesn’t say anything as they sit in the hallway, Dally holding the bag open between them. It’s sort of like sitting in the movies with Pony splitting popcorn that Soda had been able to con off one of his girlfriends who worked there. But it doesn’t feel the same, not when Johnny’s fingers brush against Dally’s and not when Dally’s seems to brush back, deliberately.

Dally gives him a slight smile when that happens, wipes his fingers against his shirt like he doesn’t care about getting food on it. They wash up side-by-side in the boy’s bathroom. It’s the downstairs one where most kids don’t go, so the mirror only has one crack in it, a jagged line where one of the supports has come loose from the wall.

Johnny looks at himself in the mirror, touches the skin around his bruised eye almost without thinking.

“Bag of peas might help,” Dally says. “Maybe for the swelling.”

“Looks worse than it is.” It’s not like the electric is on consistently enough for anything but a mini-fridge. And the freezer on that never seems to stay cold enough.

“Tell that to someone who ain’t had his fair share of those,” Dally says. “Want me to take a look?”

There’s nothing to see, really, or nothing he can do, but Johnny shrugs.

Dally crowds into his space, puts him against the wall so that Johnny doesn’t really have to hold himself up, but leaves enough of a gap between their bodies that Johnny could slip through if he wanted. Dally’s hands are a little rough at the fingertips, but he’s gentle as he tilts Johnny’s chin up.

Some of Johnny’s hair falls in his face, and Dally reaches to brush it back. Johnny’s breathing picks up. Dally’s face is unreadable, Johnny illiterate in whatever’s going on now.

“Jesus, your eyes,” Dally finally says. “Still the same. I’ve waited -”

Whatever Dally’s been waiting for gets interrupted by the sound of security opening the bathroom door. Dally jumps back, like he’s been doing something wrong, turns on a sink and begins scrubbing his hands. Johnny clenches his eyes shut, sucks in a breath.

“Whatever you’re doing, time to get your trifling selves back to class,” the guard says from the doorway. “Mr. Morris been after you.”

“Yeah, OK,” Dally says, grabbing a wad of paper towels and crumpling them between his wet hands.

ISS is more of the same, though Dally drags his chair closer to Johnny’s, takes Johnny’s packet without asking, and starts where they’d ended yesterday. It’s faster going with Dally reading to him. He won’t tell him the answer to the questions, which is probably why Mr. Morris doesn’t separate them; just keeps asking questions in different ways until Johnny gives an answer he likes. At one point, Dally drapes an arm around the back of Johnny’s chair, drags his thumb along the top of it, along Johnny’s spine, lip pulling in a smile when Johnny shivers at the touch.

It’s probably going too far, because Mr. Morris clears his throat, gives Johnny a long skeptical look when they move their chairs apart. “A word, Mr. Winston,” he says, before they roll out to lunch.

Johnny waits in the hallway for Dally. There’s always a rush on the line anyway.

“I’m violating your ‘personal hula hoop,’” Dally says, as he’s leaving the room. “Mr. Morris says I gotta leave some space for the holy spirit or whatever.”

Johnny must look spooked, because Dally jostles him in the shoulder and says, “Relax, kid, I’m just messing with you.”

Johnny doesn’t really know what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything, just files after Dally into the cafeteria line then to a table that’s apparently going to be _their_ table.

Things carry on like that that day, and the next, until Mr. Morris calls Dally over and gives him the standard-issue lecture about not making bad choices and landing in ISS and if he needs someone to talk to, Mr. Morris is here for him. Dally doesn’t roll his eyes too bad, doesn’t suck his teeth either, so Mr. Morris just claps him on the arm and sends him back to whatever class he’s supposed to be in.

Johnny lazes his way through gym - he’s supposed to dress out, but they have a sub, and so everyone either lies on the bleachers or leaves - and mostly stares out the window during art class, though he’s usually good with art. The charcoal drawings they’re doing smear his fingers, and he’s gotta scrub extra hard with oil soap to get it off. Pony laughs at him when he shows him the smudges on his fingers when they meet up after class.

He gets some on his eye too, apparently, ‘cause Dally’s waiting for him after school, feet kicking against the low brick wall out front. He grips Johnny’s face with none of the softness he used earlier.

“Who -” he says, then notices the smudging, and laughs.

“What, you just gonna jump whoever did that?” Pony says, puffing his chest out like he’s ready to step to Dally.

“Maybe,” Dally says, voice low and dangerous sounding. “You gonna stop me?”

Pony just shakes his head, slings his bag, weighted with homework and whatever else, full like Johnny’s probably should be, over one shoulder. “You coming?” he says to Johnny.

“See you tomorrow, kid,” Dally calls.

 

“He’s got a record, I heard,” Pony says, later, when they’re hanging out on the stoop at his place.

Johnny shrugs. “I do too,” he says. “So does Soda. So does _Darry_.”

“Yeah, but yours is for _shoplifting_ ,” Pony says, like it isn’t a real charge, like he hadn’t heard Johnny mention his brothers. “Heard he’s only at school ‘cause his probation officer makes him go for the count.”

“Been there a week.”

Pony gives him this look he’s thinking, but whatever he’s about to say gets interrupted by a car full of white kids rolling up, probably from out the county or Federal Hill by the make of their car.

One, a girl, rolls down the window, and motions for them to come over.

Pony and he exchange a look. They’re lost maybe, taking a wrong turn or maybe wanting directions to the nearest corner or something. Pony shrugs, and goes over, doing that rolling bouncing walk he does to clown on Soda when Soda’s trying to impress girls.

“You lost?” Pony says.

The girl just holds out a twenty, like Pony is some little hopper, instead of a kid who’s about to go inside to have his big brother yell at him about his homework.

Johnny comes up, now, because it’d be easy just to take her money, send them around the block with the promise of a blast that’d never come. Closer, he can see her nails are painted red, neat in that salon-done way, not even fakes. She’s tapping the money against the rubber part of the rolled down window, all bored and agitated. It’s too much, because it’s there and then it’s in Johnny’s hand, and he’s saying something about going to talk to some guy whose name he heard at school once, who’s got a corner set up not too far from here, and then they’re driving off.

“What the fuck?” Pony says, though he says it quietly, more like he can’t believe that Johnny had the balls to do it.

Johnny sort of can’t believe he did, either, but he tries to play it cool, even though his heart is beating against his ribs. He pockets the money; it feels heavy there somehow. He can’t take it home with him, no way to keep his mom out of his stuff. “C’mon,” he says. “Carryout?”

They sit out on Pony’s neighbors’ stoop, gorging themselves on chicken and rice.

“Darry’ll just ask me where I got the money,” Pony says, shrugging. They move a few houses down, then around the block, even though all the old biddies in the neighborhood know the Curtises and will just tell Darry what Pony was doing, anyhow.

Johnny’s not even halfway done with his food when the car comes back.

“Shit,” Ponyboy says. “Let’s go.” He’s got his carton in his hands, ready to run to his house.

“Don’t!” Johnny yells. “Don’t let ‘em see where you live.” He tosses his food into the plastic bag, grabs for Pony’s too, even though Pony just yells at him to leave it, and they rabbit down the street.

The kids in the car must have gotten beer from some place, because there’s a half-full bottle tossed at him, busting like a water balloon on the sidewalk, as they make for the nearest alley. Pony’s a few steps ahead, manages to avoid any of the glass or the sprayed beer.

Johnny has to jump a little, but doesn’t step in it. He’s not so lucky, though, when the next bottle comes, higher this time, crunching into the wall near him, sending pieces of glass flying out. He can’t avoid stepping on it, so he doesn’t, feels a piece go into his shoe, not deep enough to cut but deep enough that his sneakers are probably done for.

“Fuck!” he yells, and ducks into the alley. It’s narrow enough that the car can’t follow, though who knows if the kids will try to come after them on foot.

The car brakes, and it’s nice enough that there’s not even a squeal from it. Johnny hears a door slam, and the sounds of glass crunching as one of the kids from the car follows them into the alley.

There’s a set of back stairs up one of the neighbors’ houses, and Johnny hears Pony running up it, up to the back porch, and scrambling over the slanted roof there to climb to the top of the house. Johnny pushes the plastic bag up his arm and follows.

He ends up having to lever himself from the lower porch roof to the higher roof over a short wall. He lands on gravel that’s sticky with roof tar, worn down enough by the rain that it’s not sharp. Pony’s sitting with his back to the wall, breathing hard. There’s shouting from the alley below, the kids from the car screaming for them to come out. It’s enough to get the neighbors up, and Johnny can hear one of them, probably one of the retirees who never left her paid-off rowhouse, banging on the porch with a broom and threatening to call the police on the lot of them.

It’s probably foolish to grab a wad of gravel, and send it down on the the heads of the kids below. The alley is dark, lit only by porch lights, but enough to make out a boy slinking away, a girl with the brightest red hair Johnny has ever seen next to him, hand on his back as they walk away. He misses at first, gravel raining off the porch below, but the second handful hits the boy squarely, tar sticking to his shirt.

“Motherfuckers!” the boy yells, accompanied by more broom-tapping from the neighbor, who by now has probably called the police.

Johnny ducks back down, tosses another handful of gravel across the roof to disguise where it came from, not that it matters much, since he hears the car take off.

He checks inside the plastic bag still dangling from his arm. The carton has spilled open. If he was alone, he’d probably just grab a fork and eat, but Pony’s there.

“I think Soda left some stuff for dinner,” Pony says.

Johnny brings the bag with him, though he stashes it in one of the trash cans along the alley. He can feel the piece of glass he stepped on more sharply now, digging in further as he walks. He sits on the steps leading to the back porch at Pony’s house, flips his shoe up like he’s examining it for dog shit. There’s glass and some blood, apparently. It must have nicked him while he was running. The shoe’s jacked, probably useless even if he can pry the glass out.

Pony’s looking at him, and Johnny just takes off both shoes, pads into the Curtis house in his socks.

Soda did leave food for dinner - nothing fancy, just some boxed rice and pork chops, but it’s warm enough once Pony zaps it in the microwave.

“Should have seen your face when you took that money,” Pony says, after they’ve eaten and washed their plates.

Johnny shrugs. There’s about 5 bucks in change left over from the carryout, and he knows he can’t take it home with him. “Hold on to that for me, OK?”

Pony’s expression as he takes the crumpled bill isn’t hard to read at all, that mix of pity and trying to hide pity that Johnny sees sometimes from his teachers and the lunch ladies when they give him an extra-large serving. “I think I Darry has some boots that he doesn’t wear anymore. I’ll go get ‘em.”

 

Johnny ends up clopping to school the next day in those boots. They’re too big by a size, even with a doubled-up pair of socks, and he’s probably done growing, so there’s no chance he’ll get big enough for them.

Dally’s not back in ISS, but he’s chilling outside in the hallway anyway, like he’s waiting for Johnny. He takes a look at Johnny’s shoes, then demands the whole story, laughing when Johnny mentions taking the rich kids for their money, scowling when Johnny mentions stepping on broken glass. He doesn’t say much in response, just asks what size shoes Johnny wears, and heads down the hallway toward one of the side-doors that security doesn’t bother to monitor.

Mr. Morris offers to help Johnny with his reading, today, but even with the text read out loud, it’s hard to concentrate, so he eventually gives up. Math comes easier, even though he can go to regular math class, so doesn’t really need to do it here. It’s fine, though: He spends the morning following Mr. Morris’ scrawlings on one of the whiteboards they use for tutoring.

He gets lost enough in trig that it’s a surprise when the bell rings, and he’s a minute or two late out the door, enough that he can hear Kayla laughing at something in the hallway.

“Looks like your boy came through,” she giggles at him before Johnny can see what’s happening.

Dally has the good sense to look a little embarrassed, just a little red at the tips of his ears, before he hands Johnny a Payless bag and tells him to go see if they fit.

Inside the bag is a box with sneakers, off-brand enough that they won’t get taken, but in his size, and with a six-pack of white socks too. They do fit, and Dally whistles when Johnny stands up, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet.

“They look good, kiddo,” Dally says, even though they’re just gray high-tops with blue trim and blue laces.

“I like the laces,” Johnny says, feeling sort of shy, all of a sudden, even though most of the crowd has cleared out of the hallway. “I, uh, I can get the money -”

“Early birthday present,” Dally says. “Don’t worry about.”

Johnny bites his lip. It’s not like he can give the shoes back - Dally’d pulled a knife from somewhere to cut the tags off - without making him mad. But it’s uncomfortable, owing him like that. There’s never anything for free, not in Baltimore, and Johnny doesn’t have anything to pay with, anyway.

Later in class, Kayla notices him staring at his new shoes, nice enough that they look like they belong to someone else. She suggests a few ways Jonny can pay Dally back, low enough not to catch hell from Mr. Morris for being dirty in class, and with an expression on her face like she’s joking but not really. Her own shoes are plain, clean enough that he can tells she cares for them, but nothing special. He’s only seen her wear the one pair unless she has to dress up for something. Whatever she’s saying, she clearly heard it from someone else, maybe one of her friends down the block.

“Stay for a minute, Johnny,” Mr. Morris says, once the last bell has rung. Even though it’s hot in the ISS room - too late in the year for them to turn on the window unit A/C - he still looks ironed, mint green shirt and dark green tie bright against his dark skin. Johnny sits in the chair he gestures to, waits for a minute as Mr. Morris gathers his thoughts.

“Anything that you …” he begins. “You know if there’s something going on or anything you want to talk about or anything else, there are folks here who would listen.”

Johnny nods. He’s used to this sort of talk from teachers, especially when he showed up to school with a bruise across his face during his first month as a freshman. CPS couldn’t do much other than put him with his aunt out in the county for a few weeks. She had three kids of her own, and he missed Pony and Soda, so it didn’t last. Eventually, teachers stopped calling, anyhow.

“Thanks, Mr. Morris.” He doesn’t know what else he can say.

Pony has some study group thing after school, so Johnny’s left kicking around on his own. He goes to the movies, sneaking in when the ticket taker is dealing with a rush of teenagers, flashing an old ticket stub he keeps with his bus pass. He ends up watching the sequel to a movie that he hadn’t seen, but there’s decent enough action and some funny parts. After, when the lights come up, he thinks about hiding out in the bathroom, seeing another movie, even though all that’s playing is some kid cartoon, when he sees a flash of blond hair.

“Hey, Johnny,” Dally calls. He greets Johnny by pulling him into a headlock, ruffling his hair. He’s wearing his hair slicked, tight jeans and a white T-shirt, carrying a leather jacket though the weather’s too warm for it. It’s country, or throwback, or something. Whatever it is, though, it fits him. “You got some place to be?”

Johnny swallows, shakes his head as he pulls away. “Nope, not really.”

It’s raining when they get outside, steadily enough that Dally pulls Johnny close, under his jacket, and they make for his car. He starts the engine soon enough, turns the vents to face the floor, warming Johnny’s feet.

“Can’t let those new shoes get ruined.”

Dally lives alone, apparently, in an apartment above a laundromat, one of those rent-by-the-week places. Johnny doesn’t ask where his parents are, and Dally doesn’t volunteer anything. Inside, with the rain going, and the dim flickering ceiling bulb providing only a little light, it feels like the world has narrowed to the two of them.

“Here,” Dally says, handing him a wad of newspaper.

Johnny stuffs some in his shoes, puts them near a vent. He’s wearing the socks Dally bought him, now wet from the rain, water spreading up his jeans and from his shoulders to his sleeves.

Dally goes and rummages through a suitcase, finds a sweatshirt and a pair of socks. He tosses them to Johnny. “Shirt’ll probably dry faster if you hang it,” he says, then goes to mess with something in the kitchen.

Johnny wanders in a few minutes later, gets an approving look now that he’s dried and wearing Dally’s shirt. Dally’s fussing at the stove, trying to light it, even though it’s clicking that there’s gas. Johnny takes a match, lights it, tries to help.

“No!” Dally says, too loud in the small kitchen, grabbing Johnny’s hand and forcing it under the sink, holding it under the stream of water long after the match goes out. He’s still gripping Johnny’s hand after a minute, then drops it just as abruptly as he’d snatched it.

“You OK?” Johnny asks.

“Just -” Dally says. “Didn’t want you to burn yourself.”

“I wouldn’t,” Johnny says, confused, but doesn’t say anything else. He watches the way Dally’s chest presses against his shirt as he breathes hard, the way his mouth forms a grim line.

They eat on Dally’s couch. It’s one of those fold-out things that turns into a bed. Dally gives him a bowl of mac and cheese, the kind with the powder that Pony sometimes makes for himself. He turns on his TV. There’s an O’s game on, though Johnny can’t tell if it’s a rerun or not.

They sit and watch, Dally not saying anything other than to murmur at the game, or ask if Johnny wants more, then going to make some more food before Johnny can even answer. It’s warm here, Johnny with a full belly. He doesn’t realize he’s asleep until he is, wakes up with his head on Dally’s shoulder, looks up to find Dally looking at him with a strange expression. He looks younger like this, face relaxed, light turning his eyelashes gold.

“Anyone gonna miss you at home if you stay over?” Dally asks.

Johnny shakes his head, but doesn’t move it off Dally’s shoulder.

Dally lets out a breath like he doesn’t approve, but doesn’t say anything else.

“I could -” Johnny begins, and he doesn’t know if he can get the words out, so he just puts a hand on Dally’s thigh, then higher, makes for his zipper. He hasn’t really done this before, but it can’t be that difficult, even for a dummy like him. He can figure it out, probably.

“What the fuck, kid?” Dally says, but even this is mild, not even a raised voice, just pulling Johnny’s hand away from his leg, keeping it between his own. “Jesus, not like this, OK.”

Something in the way he does it makes Johnny’s face burn, cheeks hot suddenly, angry. “What do you _want_?” he says, getting up, shaking his hand out from where Dally has his, drawing it to his chest. “Just fucking tell me.” He’s mad, the way he’s not supposed to get, yelling over top of the TV and the rhythmic thumps of the washing machines downstairs and the rain.

Dally’s standing now, running a hand through slicked hair. “I - can’t I just be _nice_ to you?”

Johnny laughs, but it’s not a pleasant laugh at all. “Why? Why me? Why not some other loser kid? Shit don’t come for free, OK. I know that. I’ll - whatever you want. OK.”

Dally shakes his head, sits back down, buries his face in his hands for a minute, then looks up. “I came so far for you. I just - I just wanted to find some place where you weren’t fucked up, where I could get you out, thought maybe this was the one, but I don’t think there is one.”

He gets up, sudden, goes and gets a book from the milk crate serving as a table, opens it and pulls out a picture. It’s black and white, cracked where it’s been folded down the middle. Johnny sees Dally first, hair bright in the picture, looking tougher than he does now, hair slicked, a cigarette stuck in the corner of his mouth.

“So what -” Johnny says, but then he spots himself in the photo. He looks different, hair greased and half-over his face, clothes he knows he doesn’t own. And then he sees Ponyboy; Soda; Steve, who’d been sent down to juvie the year before; the boy everyone called ‘Quarter’ since he was always trying to sell dime bags to rich kids for 25 bucks. That’d got his ass beat two months ago. Soda said he’d gotten sent to live with relatives down in Atlanta, but who knows if anything he says is true. Pony and Soda look paler than they do now, almost white instead of being mixed, and everyone’s wearing tight shirts and jeans like it’s some throwback thing.

“What the fuck, Dally?” Johnny says after a minute. “What the fuck is this?”

“I, uh,” Dally begins, looking unsure. “I ain’t exactly from around here.”

“How -” Johnny asks. “How _old_ are you? Why am I …” he points to the picture. “This isn’t real. You’re sick. This isn’t real.”

Dally laughs, then, and it’s ugly, the way Johnny’s father laughs. “I thought that too, the first time.” He hands Johnny a book, a journal really, written in the handwriting Johnny recognizes from class. “I started writing this when I got killed. Again.”

He opens the book, thumbs to a page. Johnny can see the date. It says August 25, 1981. “I just … the first time, you died from that fire and breaking your back. The second time, you drowned, held down by some asshole that your dad owed money to. I got there just in time to see your legs kick out. The third time,” he pauses, wipes a hand over his face. “We were in some shitty town in Kentucky, and you got shot in the belly after Soda did something stupid. Parents wouldn’t even pay to bury you proper, just put you in the yard like a fucking dog.”

Johnny sits, pulls his knees up to his chest. Waits.

“I know this sounds crazy. I got no proof other than some pictures. And these.” He pulls up his shirt, and turns so Johnny can see his back. He has tattoos, three lines of them, each two sets of dates. “You die. Then I die.”

He pulls his shirt back down, turns, and shakes three more photos out of the book. There’s another with Johnny and everyone. The back says 1981. One just has Johnny and Ponyboy, arms around each other, grinning, a Twizzler hanging out of Ponyboy’s mouth like it’s a cigarette; it’s dated 1997.

The last is a set of pictures of Johnny and Dally, dated the same year, taken at what looks like a photobooth. In the first one, Johnny’s looking at the camera, smiling big. He’s got bad teeth, one a little brown in the front, but he looks happy. Dally’s not looking at the camera, though. He’s looking at Johnny, and he looks - Johnny doesn’t know if he knows the right word for it, if there is a right word for such a thing, a combination of sweet, and rough, and utterly fucking terrified, like Johnny might disappear right there. In the picture below it, Johnny’s kissing him on the cheek, and Dally’s looking smug at the camera. In the third, they’re kissing for real, Dally’s hand on his face, Johnny raising an arm to the camera like he’s trying to give them some privacy.

“I-” Dally begins. “I just - you keep dying and I keep … and I keep coming back, same age, but different places. Just to show up and keep going. I’m _stuck_.”

“Yeah,” Johnny says. He reaches his hand out, brushes Dally on the back of the neck, fingers through the short hairs there, the vulnerable skin on the back of his neck above his shirt collar. “Know how you feel.”

When Dally reaches out, Johnny goes to him, winds his arms around Dally’s neck, rests his head on Dally’s chest. It feels familiar. They lie like that for a long time, the only sounds their breathing and the rain on Dally’s windows.

“I used to be angry,” Dally says, after a long while. From this angle, Johnny can’t see the clock. It doesn’t matter. No one’s going to wonder after him. “The second time you died, I punched a wall ‘til my knuckles got tore up. Broke two fingers.” He holds out a hand, so Johnny could see the crisscross of scars there. “The third time, I didn’t even bother with that much. Just shot the guys who shot you, then did myself in the head. Woke up in fucking Baltimore four months ago. Took a while to get the papers to go to school, but some shit never changes.”

“There’s got to be some way,” Johnny says. “Somehow we get outta here. Alive.”

Dally laughs then, a real laugh, low and rumbling so that Johnny can feel it. “I hear you, kid. I know.”

He sleeps there that night, stripped to Dally’s borrowed shirt and his boxers, socks still on. Dally unfolds the couch so they can lie on it, and Johnny ends up falling asleep with Dally’s arms around his waist, breath tickling the back of his neck.

 

Something must show in his face the next day, or maybe Kayla just notices him wearing the same clothes as the day before. She gives him one of those skeptical looks, the kind that she must have learned from older women, smiles, and says nothing.

It’s strange being at school, knowing what he knows. That he’s himself, but he’s not _himself_ , one of a list of Johnny Cades, perhaps not the last in that list, either. It occupies him through most of the day, not being able to concentrate on his work, even math that generally comes easier than reading.

Mr. Morris chalks his being unfocused up to thinking about Dally, and they have a weird conversation about short-term planning versus longer-term planning, which Johnny doesn’t really see the point of: it’s not like he had long-term plans anyway.

He sends Johnny to go carry a purple folder across the school to one of the music teachers, who sends him up to the third floor with an orange one. He knows it’s just code for telling him to take a walk and clear his head, so he ducks into the bathroom with the disabled smoke detector and has a quick cigarette from the pack Dally gave him that morning.

Dally’d given him a lighter, saying something about how he shouldn’t burn his fingers with matches. The lighter takes a few times to get going, so he burns his fingers anyway, sucks them into his mouth at the hurt. He sits on one of the toilets, in the stall closest to a window that’s been left cracked open, though there’s metal grating on it to keep kids from breaking them, feet up so that security won’t find him.

Johnny took a knife, too, feels the weight of it secure in his pocket. He’d rolled in late enough that security didn’t even scan him, just fussed at him to get to class something like on time. Dally doesn’t know about the knife, or at least didn’t say anything after Johnny snuck it from where it’d been in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. It’s old, maybe as old as Dally. He’s not sure how age works with someone who wakes up in different times. He’s not sure if that makes Dally a time traveler or someone from another universe or what. Maybe he should ask Ponyboy. He thinks about deep shit like that.

The cigarette has burned down to the filter, so he puts the butt in the toilet, ready to flush it, when some boys from the science magnet program come in.

He doesn’t know who they are - they only get bused in twice a week, and go through a separate entrance so they don’t ‘disturb’ regular classes. Really, it’s just to keep them away from kids like Johnny.

They’re talking about something Johnny doesn’t understand, chemistry, maybe. He watches their shoes walk by as they go to the urinals, then drops his sneakers softly enough so that they won’t hear him, goes for the lock. He’s out and almost at the door when his shoes squeak on the tiles a little.

“Hey!” one of the boys yells, and then there’s a hand on the back of Johnny’s neck. He’s spun around, throwing his arms up in front of his face, waiting for a blow that doesn’t come.

“Fuck, it’s that little fucker that took Cherry’s money,” the boy - who he recognizes as the kid from the alley - says. The boy rears a hand back, about to punch, when Johnny kicks out, getting his shin, then steps on his foot, hard.

He breaks for the door, hoping he can get to the hallway where someone’ll probably get security, who might or might not come around to pull them off. Still, enough noise would get the teachers in the hall, and the rich kids probably care about getting written up. He thinks about the knife in his pocket, thinks about how easy it would make things, if only for a second. Running’s easier, though.

He doesn’t make it to the door; they push him down on the floor, and kick him a few times, hard, in the ribs. One probably cracks, but he’s more worried when they stomp on his hands. Those fucking _hurt_ and he cries out, which just brings one of their shoes almost, but not quite, to his teeth.

“Bob!” one of the kids, not the one about to kick his face in, shouts. “C’mon. Think someone’s coming!”

They rush out, Bob getting one final kick in Johnny’s side before he goes. Johnny sighs, drags himself up, and looks in the mirror. His lip got split, dribbling blood, and he knows he’ll have bruises. His ribs feel sore; he’ll need to get some tape. Darry keeps some around, or maybe the nurse, but she’ll just ask questions, make him go sit in the office while they bring in the boys who jumped in, their parents too, maybe a lawyer, all ‘cause he relieved them of 20 bucks they probably could lose and not notice.

He can’t go back to the ISS room, either, so he washes his face, jams the sleeve of his shirt into the cut, even though it’ll stain. He turns the hand-dryer on, sticks as much of his face under it as he can, until the cut doesn’t throb as much.

There’s a back stairway that leads to the blacktop and to the parking lot. He doesn’t have to try too hard to get out though, and he heads for the bus stop. Digging in his pocket, he finds the burner phone Dally’d given him. “Took a while to get used to those,” he’d said, sheepish. He doesn’t want Dally to hear about him getting beat from anyone else, either.

His hands shake as he types his text, and he has to get a cigarette in his mouth and take a long pull from it before he can steady himself. He’d had worse, from his father, from some of the other neighborhood kids, but they’d gone for his face, his stomach. One of his fingers is probably broken, bent some way it shouldn’t be, nail cracked.

‘got jumped. meet at urs.’

Dally might be in class, though he’d said something about riding today, driving out to the boonies to make some cash at one of the fairs there.

Still, his phone buzzes a minute later. “there in 20.”

He catches a bus, collapses on one of the back seats, manages to get himself off at the right stop. Dally’s car is out front, and he comes down when Johnny buzzes up, helps him up the stairs and onto the couch.

Dally brings a first aid kit over, dabs at Johnny’s lip, then hands him something wrapped in a towel. “For your ribs.”

Johnny lies on his side, pressing the cold pack to one of the places that throbs. He also swallows the pill Dally hands him, dry, without asking what it is.

“Lemme see your hand,” Dally says. He examines the nail, the way Johnny’s ring finger looks bent the wrong way, the bruises that formed along his palm. “Gonna have to tape that.” He taps Johnny’s finger lightly. “Probably should ice the whole thing.” He pauses, considering, then brings Johnny’s palm to his mouth, kisses it lightly. “Took dying twice to figure out why I wanted to stomp anyone who looked at you funny.”

Johnny feels a pang of something. It’d be weird to be jealous of his other self, the dead kid in Kentucky, buried in his parents’ yard. Mostly he’s just feeling his hands ache, the fuzziness of the pill start to kick in.

“Probably shouldn’t let you sleep,” Dally says. “Could have a concussion.” He checks Johnny’s eyes, opening them each wide to look at his pupils. “Look alright though. What’d you remember from the fight?”

Johnny tells him as Dally tapes his hand, wincing when he has to wrap the nail, when he binds his ring and pinky finger together.

“Never thought to pull that on ‘em?” Dally asks. He pats Johnny’s pocket with the knife in it.

Johnny doesn’t know if Dally wanted him to or not. He’s not really sure if he could, either. For a minute, he imagines sliding a blade into Bob’s side, seeing the surprised look on his face, seeing Bob gush blood all over his shirt that probably costs more than all Johnny’s clothes combined. It’s strangely satisfying, like tossing bottles off Pony’s roof just to see the glass break.

So he doesn’t answer, just shuts his eyes and fakes sleep. It must turn into real sleep, because whatever Dally gave him for the pain knocks him out, and he wakes up to Dally shaking his shoulder. The light coming in through the windows is dimmer.

“Even if they don’t miss you at home,” he says. “Should probably get you some clothes or something.”

Johnny shrugs. “Most of ‘em are over at Pony’s place. You, uh, sure you could go to my parents’ house and be OK?”

The look on Dally’s face tells Johnny that the plan wasn’t to be _OK_. He’s clenching his fists, knuckles white, looking like he wants to punch something and not stop.

“Yeah,” Dally says, after a minute, uncurling his hands, huffing a laugh. “Probably shouldn’t go over there, mood I’m in. That took a while to figure out, too. Dying a few times’ll do that.” He gets up and goes into the kitchen. Johnny hears the water running.

“Gotta head out to the fair tomorrow, though. Little light on cash.” He sits down where he’d been, right by Johnny, who’s still flopped over on the couch from sleeping.

“Tell me about riding,” Johnny says, trying to get the pinched expression off Dally’s face. He turns his head so his face is right on Dally’s thigh. He can feel Dally tense for a second, muscles thick there. Dally relaxes, lets Johnny squirm into him, runs a hand through his hair as he tells him about riding back in the day, the way the rodeos have changed now. He’s got good legs, for riding, Dally says, drawing a grin from Johnny that Dally mirrors.

“I bet,” Johnny says, blushing a little.

Dally ruffles his hair some, and keeps talking about riding and horses and the wide open space of the American West.

His voice carries Johnny back to sleep.

 

They cut school the next day, drive out to the county, to the fair grounds. It’s not a long drive, but it’s one of those warm bright days where it’s easier to forget how shitty things are. Johnny puts his feet up on the dash, toys with the radio dial until Dally glares at him, leaves it on some oldies station as a tease, even though Dally doesn’t recognize most of the songs anyway.

Johnny’s hands hurt more than they did the day before, some combination of bruises and swelling and not taking any meds this morning. Dally had retaped them, after pushing Johnny into the shower, laughing at him to wash his skinny ass, then throwing a towel at his head when he got out. It was warm, Dally’s whole apartment was, without being overheated the way his house gets in the summer, not enough extension cords to run the fans.

“Hope you don’t mind,” Dally says. “I gotta do some stuff today.”

Which means Johnny ends up trailing after him to the horse stalls, watching as Dally rubs down a few horses, goes at their feet with a brush with a plastic spike on it, gives them hay and oats and water, murmurs to them, little nonsense things.

The other rodeo guys eye Johnny, ask if he’s Dally’s kid brother or cousin or whatever, though they’re clearly not related. Dally just shrugs off the questions. “Met him a lifetime ago,” he says, smiling a cheesy grin at Johnny.

“You can stick around here if you want,” Dally says, later, gesturing to the stalls. It smells like horses and horseshit, not unpleasant, though. “I’m gonna go do some riding, check on a few things.”

Johnny’s ribs hurt, but he feels like wandering, somehow, so he tells Dally he’ll catch him later, and goes to see the rest of the fair. It’s not up and working, all the rides looking old, still and unused.

He stops next to one of the Ferris wheels, has to lean against a low plastic barrier that separates the line from the control area. His ribs hurt, hand too, though in a distant way, like the sun has burned off some of his pain.

One of the fair workers, a big woman in her late 40s, comes out, probably to chase him off. He gets up to go, but she just gives him an amused look. “You that kid come in with Dally?” she asks.

“Yeah,” he says, but doesn’t elaborate.

“Wanna ride?” She points up at the Ferris wheel. “I gotta run it, just to check some timing stuff. It’s safe, I promise.”

“Sure, uh, OK,” he says.

“You good with heights? Don’t want you pukin’ on my ride.”

He nods, and she lets him on the ride. He has to hop on one of the seats, which is warm from the sun. She lowers the metal bar over his lap. “Don’t go slipping now,” she says, then hops down.

The ride starts slow, just like being in an elevator. The seat wobbles a little, nothing major, but he grips the bar over his lap anyway, though it hurts his hand. He can see the fair grounds, then further, into the twisting housing developments lined with trees, houses far from each other like each one needs its own breathing space. The wheel squeaks, a little, just enough to remind him how high up he is, and then stops, Johnny’s seat rocking with the change in speed.

He’d been up the Transamerica Tower as a kid, some school field-trip, but this feels higher than that, being in the open seat, the sky like a dome he could touch if he could only reach high enough. Everything looks small, less real, somehow. It’s a little chilly, just from the breeze, smells like dust and sunshine and nothing. He breathes in, deep, feeling content for a short minute, then the ride starts up, and he’s heading back for the earth.

Dally finds him, later. “Got some color there,” he says, brushing a hand up Johnny’s cheek like he doesn’t mind the looks the other rodeo guys are giving him. Maybe he doesn’t. “Something I want to do. C’mon.”

It turns out what Dally wants to do is take a picture together. He has a camera phone that someone must have lent him, and he crowds Johnny against one of the wooden barn walls, slats digging in his back a little, drapes an arm around him, then holds the phone up. It takes him a few tries, and he grumbles about it, especially when he sets the camera to take the picture the opposite way, and ends up photographing the far wall instead.

Johnny doesn’t say, anything, just points to the picture he thinks is the best, the one where Dally is flush against him, smiling, and Johnny’s grinning so hard his ribs hurt, even if he doesn’t feel all the way happy. He knows that photo is just going to end up in the little black notebook of Dally’s, maybe something to show another Johnny twenty years from now.

Dally doesn’t look too happy, either. Johnny’s about to suggest they do something else when his stomach growls and makes the suggestion for him.

“Gotta get you fed, Johnnycake,” he says, and his smile seems more real now.

 

He goes back to school the next day, in the same jeans he’s been wearing, now clean, and one of Dally’s too big shirts. His fingers are still taped, ribs too, but the shirt is long enough that he can hide his hands.

“We missed you yesterday, Mr. Cade,” Mr. Morris says, when Johnny rolls into to the ISS room a few minutes late, then pauses. He hands Johnny a folder, a manilla one, meaning it’s going to the office. “There’s a note for the AP in there too, with the attendance.”

He delivers the attendance to the office, but has to wait for the AP in one of the conference rooms. The office ladies come in to check on him. One even goes so far as to offer him something to drink, which is when Johnny knows something is going on.

The AP comes in. Johnny’s seen her around, of course, talked with her once or twice when the school was still reporting his parents. She’s got that forced expression on her face adults get when they want to know something, but won’t say it outright. This must be about the fight, then.

“We know what happened two days ago, in that bathroom,” she says, after greeting him. She sits in a chair two chairs away, not across the table like he’s in trouble, but not next to him, either. “I’m just looking for your side of the story.”

Which could mean she got the whole thing - or the other boys’ side of it already. Or that she’s trying to get him to snitch on them. So, he just shrugs.

“They jumped you, didn’t they?”

Another shrug, one shouldered, like he can’t manage the effort for two.

“We have them on video,” she says. “Leaving the bathroom. And you a few minutes later.”

“Then what you need from me?” he says. He knows he sounds rude, mouthy, might get punished for it, but he’d just get ISS or home suspension that he could spend at Ponyboy’s or Dally’s.

She presses her lips together. “Mr. Morris also - he has some concerns about your new … Where are you staying, these days, Johnny?”

“I’m almost 18,” he says, instead. “Besides, you gonna send me home?” He looks up at her, eyes hard.

The AP just sighs and says, “Well, I suppose not,” she says. “I just want to make sure you’re safe. Taken care of.” She drums her nails against the table, adjusts the gold wedding band on her finger. “The boys who beat you up. They’ll be on suspension for a while. You might see them back by the end of the week. Just so you know.”

Meaning they got a few days, but not the full five most kids get for brawling. Of course.

“OK,” he says.

“If they give you a hard time -” she says.

“OK,” he says, again. “Can I go back to class now?”

The boys do come back. Johnny stays off the higher floors, sticks to the safety of the basement and the ISS room. They find him anyway, in one of the hallways where the kids are always busting the cameras. It’s between classes, and Johnny had just wanted to sneak out back for a smoke. Dally said he might come around during lunch, too.

Bob has a cut on his face, maybe from the fight, though Johnny doesn’t remember hitting him. Maybe from after the fight, too. Johnny’s parents aren’t the only ones with tempers.

“Look at the snitch,” Bob says. “Walking around here like he didn’t rat us out. Gonna pay for it, you fucking illegal.”

“I didn’t -” but it doesn’t really matter, because Bob delivers a punch to the gut that has him gasping.

“More to come, asshole,” he says, and they run off.

Dally finds him on the back steps, the ones beyond the track, the grass and weeds pushing up between cracks in the concrete. Johnny’s smoking, and something on his face must show, because Dally’s expression goes cold. “I can take care of them,” he says. “If you want.”

Johnny doesn’t need to ask what that means.

They sit for a while, Dally smoking too, though it makes him cough a little.

“You ever think about just up and leaving,” Johnny asks. “Just, you wake up in some new place, in some new year, and all you do is come find me. Why not just take off somewhere else? Got to be better than _Baltimore_?”

“I do,” Dally says. “Think about it. Just getting in my car, driving out west. I miss it there, from what I remember. Better riding, too, better rodeos. More space.”

“You should,” Johnny says.

“Was gonna see if you’d come with me,” Dally says. He’s looking at the ground, at his own feet in the work boots he wears when he’s around horses, at the torn-up pavement. “Who else I got?”

“Yeah,” Johnny says. He’ll miss Ponyboy, Soda too, even. He doesn’t have much else here. “I’d like that.”

Dally’s smiling now, but something flickers over his face. “Can’t guarantee any place’ll be different from here, really. World’s full of assholes. A lot like the ones here.” He gestures to Johnny’s stomach where Bob had hit him. “Not much we can do to change that.”

“But we could, you know, get them back a little,” Johnny says.

Dally smiles, wide and vicious. “What were you thinking?”

It’s not a hard con. Johnny just has to set up looking vulnerable, a few baggies in his pocket, ready to take a few more punches from Bob and the other rich kids. It’s not real coke, of course, just baking powder dosed with the pain relief stuff Dally uses on horses. There’s a corner store the boys like to hit up for soda before their bus comes to whisk them back to Federal Hill or Roland Park or wherever.

Johnny sets up across from the store, smoking, kicking his shoes against the concrete, waiting. A few hoppers eye him, but he’s not touting, not doing anything but sitting, so they let him be. One tries to sell him some weed, more friendly than anything about it, but he just shakes his head. “Got no cash on me, sorry,” he says.

The guy shrugs. He’s maybe a year older than Johnny.

“You were up at Patterson?” Johnny asks.

“Yeah,” he says. “Come out last year.”

“You know them rich kids who go for the science academy?”

The guy rolls his eyes, so that’s a ‘yes.’ “Out here flaunting that Northface they all got on, acting like their shit don’t stink.”

Johnny smiles. “Those ones, yeah. Wondering if you could help me with something.”

The boys come out at 3pm, loud on the sidewalk. Johnny waits until he knows they can see him, then takes off, slower than he might if he was actually running, down an alley that he and Dally had picked out. Bob yells, and Johnny hears a scramble of feet after him.

He’s shoved from behind, but with enough warning that that he can put his good hand out to catch himself. Still, he sells it, crying out like Bob really got a jump on him. They kick at him a few times, and he clutches his pockets. “No, don’t!”

“What’s he got?” one of the others says. Bob reaches down, into Johnny’s pocket, grabs his wallet - empty as it is. Johnny goes to scramble away, but Bob has him by the waistband now, pulls him back, shoves a hand in his front pocket.

“Spic got himself some coke, looks like,” Bob says, once he’s pulled the baggies from Johnny’s pocket. He sticks a finger in one, tastes it, nods approvingly, like he knows what he’s talking about.

The others just shrug. “I’m not doing some banger’s ghetto coke,” one says.

Bob turns back to Johnny, who’s leaning against a wall, breathing hard like the chase really got to him. “You gonna sell this shit?”

Johnny shrugs. “Might.”

“To who?” Bob gets in his space now. Johnny resists the impulse to knee him in the balls.

“Uh,” Johnny says. “There’s a guy I know.”

Bob draws his fist back. “Tell me.”

“100 bucks and I will,” Johnny says, straightening himself up.

“Or I could beat it out of you.”

“That’s about 400 in coke right there,” Johnny says. “Your loss.”

“Hey, Randy, gimme the money,” Bob says, not taking his eyes off Johnny, snapping his fingers back.

“I got, like, 40 dollars,” Randy says.

“Take that and your jacket,” Johnny says. “Probably add up to a hundred.”

“This is a 150-dollar fleece, you little asshole,” Bob says, but he’s got Randy’s money and is shrugging out of his coat.

Johnny pockets the money, puts on Bob’s fleece, though it’s way too big for him. “Guy around the corner,” he says. “Black, light-skinned. Named Carver. He’s who I was meeting.”

“All right,” Bob says. “Now give me my fucking money back.”

Dally appears then, at the entrance to the alley. “Hey, what the fuck are you doing?” He comes in running, topples Randy and almost gets to Bob, swings his arms around more for show than anything.

Dally has his knife out, not the one Johnny knows he carries for protection, just his little grooming knife, the kind he uses on the horses’ hooves. “Get the fuck away from him,” he says, snarling.

It gets them out of the alley, and Dally puts the knife away, turns to where Johnny is still standing against the wall. “You OK?” he asks, leaning close, like he’s checking for injuries, like he might kiss Johnny in a second.

Johnny kisses him first, instead, so quickly he surprises himself. It’s nothing long, just a press of his mouth against Dally’s, Dally’s quick inhale, the feel of his hand on Johnny’s shoulder like he’s steadying himself.

“Yeah?” Dally says, after, like he’s not sure himself.

Johnny just gives him a grin, laughter bubbling up like he can’t contain it. “You’re gonna wanna see this part,” he says, and grabs Dally by the hand, dragging him to the entrance of the alley.

Sure enough, the boys are talking to the guy the hopper said was Carver, who’s leaning against a wall. He isn’t a big guy, but there’s something practiced about his lean. He’s wearing a plain dark blue shirt and jeans, sneakers that looked walked in. From this angle, Johnny can see the chain glinting at the collar of his shirt. “Guess they don’t teach what a narc looks like in magnet school,” he says, smiling.

They watch as Bob offers the burn bag, as Carver takes it, hands over a wad of what must be marked bills.

The boys only get about half a block before the cop cars roll up, sirens going, and then they’re on the ground. Rights are being yelled, and Randy must give one of the cops some shit, because he gets a knee to the back, and his face mashed against the pavement.

They wave as the cars drive by, Dally’s hand still clutched in his. Bob scowls and just sinks lower into the seat.

One of the officers, a woman police, comes over. She’s got a BPD hat on, and her badge is out. He drops Dally’s hand, but she sees and smiles at him. “Where’d you get that jacket?” she says, casually.

“Bob gave it to me,” he says, easily, nodding at the patrol cars now at the end of the street.

“Just gave it to you?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Why?”

“He wanted to know where the nearest _law enforcement officer_ was,” Dally chimes in. “So we told him.”

She rolls her eyes. “Stay in school,” she says, but doesn’t question them further.

 

“You know they’re gonna be out on bail before tomorrow,” Dally says, when they’re back at Dally’s. “Probably come looking for you, looking for some payback. Bob looks stupid enough to try again.”

“Probably,” Johnny says. He’s on the couch, feet bare, lounging and watching Dally’s cable that he gets in exchange for occasionally minding the laundromat during the night shift.

“You know that you ain’t gotta get beat all the time,” Dally says, tone almost angry.

Johnny looks up at him. “I know,” he says, finally. “I-”

He doesn’t know what to say, just pulls the knife from his pocket, lays it on the couch between them. “There’s that, too,” Johnny says.

“Ain’t your only options.”

“Seems like, some days.” He runs a finger over the knife handle, the dull outward part of the blade.

Dally shrugs. “Your choice, I guess.”

“I could die again,” Johnny says. “You too.”

“Probably would,” Dally agrees.

“Is it easy? Dying?”

“Yeah, Johnnycake, it’s like falling off a log. That’s why I do it so fucking much,” Dally says. “But it gets - easier ain’t the right word. You just get used to it.”

“It doesn’t really matter, then, what I end up doing,” Johnny says. “Never seems to, anyway.” He picks the knife up, grips it until it leaves an impression in his palm. The red lines it leaves begin to fade as soon as he puts it down again. “So, if I said, we go at them tomorrow, you’d go with me.”

“Sure,” Dally says, casual, like he’s agreeing to go see a movie.

“And if I said, we make for someplace else, you’d do that too?”

Dally turns to him, gives him a long look, face serious. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, I would.”

“OK,” Johnny says. He bites his lip. “Probably should go back to school tomorrow.”

“If that’s what you want,” Dally says. He looks tired, older than he should.

“Yeah,” Johnny says. “That’s what I want.”

Dally doesn’t say much else that night, just goes through the motions of cooking them some food. He keeps looking at Johnny like it’s the last time he’ll see him, though, a heavy look.

“I won’t -” Johnny says, right as he’s going to sleep, but he doesn’t know what he won’t do, can’t promise Bob won’t put him in the hospital, or worse, can’t promise he won’t do the same.

Dally shrugs, like it’s not inevitable that it came to this, and settles the blanket around Johnny, saying he’s gotta go take care of a few things. “Don’t wait up, kid,” he says.

He wakes up, later, sees Dally standing by the window, smoking. There’s a gun on the milk crate now, and Dally’s got a split lip and taped knuckles like he’s been in a fight.

He doesn’t say anything when he sees Johnny looking at him, just takes one last drag from his cigarette and stubs it out.

“C’mere,” Johnny says, throat feeling scratchy with sleep. He reaches an arm out, as if Dally didn’t know what he meant.

He’s careful around Dally’s lip, soft when runs his hands over Dally’s bruised cheek. Dally’s looking at him like he did in that photo from another lifetime, like Johnny might up and disappear.

“Hey,” Johnny says. “I’m not going anywhere. We’ll see each other again.”

“That’s what I’m worried about, kid,” Dally says, but lets himself be pulled into a kiss.

 

School the next day feels like school. Mr. Morris isn’t even there. There’s a new support teacher who already looks young and spooked. She promises to get him the textbook on audio but so did the last one.

Kayla gives her a smile that’s all teeth, and spends the next hour flicking pieces of paper at Daivon, who tears up his packet and tosses wads of it back. Johnny rolls his eyes at this, and helps himself to the hall pass she’d left out on the table to go find some place a little quieter.

He knows he’s looking for trouble when he bypasses the near door that leads to the blacktop and makes for the third-floor bathroom. It’s late enough in the day that the science kids should be there. He camps out in the bathroom, smoking.

Bob doesn’t show, the asshole. Randy does, though. Johnny sees him duck down; he waves Johnny out.

“I should fucking kill you,” Randy says. He sounds tired. He probably didn’t sleep much in whatever holding cell they’d thrown him in.

“Sure,” Johnny says, squaring his shoulders. He’s got his knife in his pocket. If it comes to that, he’ll fight. “You gonna?”

Randy looks at him like he’s seeing him for the first time. He’s shorter than Johnny originally thought, young enough that he doesn’t need to shave yet, baby-faced almost. “No,” he says, finally. “Bob got his ass kicked.”

“Sorry,” Johnny says, though he’s clearly not. “Probably shouldn’t try to pull that tough guy shit on the roughnecks in jail.”

“No,” Randy says. “His dad did it, after bailing us out. He’s - he’s at home today. His parents are probably going to split up.”

“Things are rough all over,” Johnny says, unsorry, mouth twisting. “Sucks to be him, I guess.”

“You’re not even a little -” Randy gets in his face, now, pushes him against the wall.

Johnny reaches into his pocket for the knife, thinking about what’ll happen if he pulls it, if he can get Randy somewhere that’ll hurt him but not kill him, if he’ll cry or pee his pants or stab Johnny with it, leave him bleeding.

He doesn’t get the chance, though, because as soon as Randy steps to him, he throws up his hands, steps back. “You’re not fucking worth it,” he says.

“Neither are you,” Johnny says, and finds he means it. He pulls the knife out, watches as Randy jumps back, then wipes it off on his shirt and tosses it on the floor. He walks out, leaving Randy looking at the knife, saying something to him that Johnny doesn’t care to hear.

 

Dally settles next to him, later that night, pulls Johnny over so that they’re sitting with their sides pressed together, Johnny’s head on his shoulder. “You got people to say goodbye too, before you go?”

“Pony,” Johnny says. “And Soda and Darry.”

“Your folks?”

Johnny shrugs. “If they’re around. Probably chasing some blast right now. Won’t notice I’m gone. Haven’t, really.” He gestures to the small bag of stuff in the corner, the clothes he’d gotten from Pony’s and his parents’ house a few days ago, his notebook from school.

“Might be a few days before I can get out there. Gotta wrap up some things here,” Dally says. “You sure you wanna go now?”

“Yes,” Johnny says, like spending another day in Baltimore is too much to even think about. “I’m done here.”

“You gonna be OK, then, on your own?”

“Probably,” Johnny says. “I’ll probably be alright.” 

Dally kisses him, then, sudden. It feels like a promise. “Yeah,” he says. “You’ll be fine.”

 

Johnny doesn’t really sleep on the bus, even though it’s chilly enough with the A/C going, and dark enough, that he could. He does drift a little, tucked under the blanket Dally had stuffed in his bag, staring out the window as the city turns into the country. He’d been to Philly once on a school trip, but never west of the city, and it’s weird to see so much farmland. The bus stops in places with names he’s heard of, but seemed as far off as other continents: Hagerstown, Breezewood, New Stanton, Pittsburgh.

It doesn’t matter, really, where he’s going, just so long as he gets there. He’s got the money Dally gave him, a bent-up paperback from Pony, his phone with enough minutes to call once he arrives so he doesn’t feel so alone. Pony hadn’t been happy, really, to hear he was leaving, but didn’t look surprised, either.

Dally told him about a friend in Chicago who’d give him a place for a while, a friend from the rodeo that he did a favor for, though he wouldn’t say what. Sure enough he finds their info written on a scrap of paper inside the book in Dally’s squared-off handwriting, a note saying they’ll meet Johnny at the bus station.

He doesn’t know what he’s gonna do, maybe register for night school or get a job pushing a broom or something. Maybe head further west, even, try the circuit. He could probably care for the horses. Dally could teach him.

The highway rolls on, dark, and between one stop and the next, Johnny sleeps. He wakes to find the bus idling at a roadstop somewhere in Ohio. He gets out, takes a piss in the too-bright bathroom, buys a dollar bag of peanuts, the kind with the shells still on. He doesn’t know if he’ll get more money soon. He spends some time crunching those, putting the shells in a water cup the clerk had just given him when he asked how much ice was. It’s colder here than it was in Baltimore, weather starting the turn, leaves showing the first sign of fall.

An hour later, on the road again, his phone buzzes, a text from an unfamiliar number. “Meet you in Chicago. Two days. Stay good.”

Johnny smiles, grips the phone for a minute, and texts back. “See you then.”

It’s almost dawn now, and they’re on the highway, concrete barriers on either side of the road to dampen noise, black asphalt ahead, the lights of some city fading behind them. Everyone on the bus is sleeping, and Johnny should probably, too. It’s another few hours to Chicago, yet, and in the morning light, everything looks gold.


End file.
